Last Words
by ForeverAlwaysTogether
Summary: Sherlock meets a woman who has already decided how she will kill herself. But will he be able to change her mind?


Sherlock

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were not doing anything special. Having just proved Sherlock's innocence, the pair had decided to take a small break from solving cases. Well, the doctor had decided and therefore forced the detective to do the same.

At the current moment, they sat on a bench in a small park only a few blocks from St. Bart's and its wonderful morgue. Sherlock couldn't stop thinking about the morgue and all of the wonderful experiments he could conduct on Molly's seemly endless supply of cadavers. But he knew better than to ask John to go there.

"One week Sherlock," he had said. "Just take a break for a week. Eat. Sleep. Rest that brain of yours."

He had agreed, but only because John was a doctor and his best friend. And has much as Sherlock hated thinking the words- he would never say them- John was right. He did need rest. After all, it wasn't every case Sherlock took done a consulting criminal who on several occasions almost killed him.

It was a quiet day in London and Sherlock hated it. He wanted something to happen. Anything. A murder, a bomb, a kidnapping. He winced. No, perhaps not a kidnapping. But anything was better than watching John read the newspaper.

The detective let his eyes look around the park, deducing the common and unimportant people he saw. The couple to the west of his sit were snogging like mad- their relationship wasn't going to last. The woman was cheating on him; Sherlock saw her the other day in the small cafe beside 221B Baker Street with a different man- also snogging. The old man to the north of the bench was feeding the birds and looking up to the sky. Mourning the loss of his wife- his wedding ring was on his right hand instead of his left.

Sighing, Sherlock moved his eyes to the east and if he hadn't been as observant as he always was, he would have missed it.

A young woman was sitting on the very edge of a bench similar to the one he sat on with John. In fact, anymore toward the edge, and she would have fallen off. Her posture was stiff, but she looked like she was trying to curl around herself. The man sitting beside her was angrily whispering something to her.

Sherlock watched as the man roughly grabbed her arm and forced her to look at him. The woman's finch did not go unnoticed by the detective, nor did the bruise on her neck that had been concealed by her long, blonde hair.

Again the man began talking, this time Sherlock could see more anger and rage in his facial expressions. The woman stared at him with intense fear. Sherlock soon saw why- although he already knew.

The man raised his hand, slapped the woman and then roughly shook her shoulders. Sherlock saw the gleam of a tear roll down her face and could see the red mark of the man's fingers on her cream skin.

He gritted his teeth and waited for someone to go to the woman's aid. Almost everyone in the park had seen the exchange, but no one moved to help the woman. Sherlock wasn't surprised- the Bystander Effect and all.

The man grabbed the woman by her arm, pulled her up from the seat, and began dragging her from the park. Sherlock glared at him as they walked past and then returned his eyes to the bench they had occupied. The woman's purse was laying forgotten on the ground.

"Sherlock?" John called after him as he stood and went to retrieve the bag. "Sherlock, what are you doing?" The doctor folded his newspaper and followed after him.

Sherlock now sat on the bench, the purse on his lap, looking through its contents.

"Sherlock," John repeated.

"Busy, John," the detective repeated.

He found the woman's wallet in the bag- honestly how did the woman find anything with such a huge purse?- and looked at her driver's license. Her name was Lila May Hymer and her address was listed as well.

"No, no, no," John said, taking the purse and wallet from his hands. "You promised to me- no cases."

"John-"

"No Sherlock. I don't care what bullshit you want to give me about how your brain doesn't need rest or your body doesn't need food- you are a human being. And human beings need sleep and food to properly function!"

"Did you honestly not see what just happened on this bench?" Sherlock asked. "Did you not just see the young woman sitting here slapped in public? Did you not see her flinching as she was pulled past us? For God's sake, John, observe!"

"Sherlock, you can't help everyone."

"Of course I can't- I'm not an idiot," he snapped. "I was going to return her purse. Or perhaps you would rather I sit in front of the telly filling my brain will all kinds of useless things that you ordinary people think is relevant. Should I start reading the gossip magazines as well?"

"Oh shut it," John said, throwing the bag back into his lap. "I know you too well, Sherlock. But listen to me would you? There. Is. No. Case. She has an abusive boyfriend- case closed."

"I didn't say there was a case, Dr. Watson. I just said I was going to return her bag to her."

"And that's it? Return her bag and leave?"

"I'm not on parole, John!" Sherlock said, exasperated. "And you are not my mother! You do not need to watch my every move or give me an outline of what I can or cannot do on daily basis."

"I'm glad I'm not your mother," he replied, crossing his arms. "Having to raise you and Mycroft must have been terrifying."

Sherlock glared at him and stood up from the bench. John followed him from the park and climbed into the taxi with him when he hailed one. Because of which, Sherlock instructed the driver to go back to Baker Street rather than Lila's address. When Sherlock went there- and he planned to- he would be alone.

They exited the cab and entered their flat. Sherlock didn't say a word as he picked up John's laptop and retreated into his room, locking the door behind him. Ignoring the obvious porn folder, Sherlock went to a search engine and typed in the woman's name.

The first website was her own personal website. She was an author, but very low-key. She had written three books: _The Teacher's Dream_, _The Alcoholic's Secret_, and her recently published_ The Woman's Last Words_. Sherlock didn't bother reading the summary of the first two- it was the last one that interested him.

He opened a new tab and searched the last title. The story focused on a young woman who had decided to end her life. She felt like no one saw her, even when she was practically screaming for them to look at her. At the end of the novel, she overdoses on pills and her body, along with her suicide note is found the next day.

The note said:

_Do not cry for me when I am gone, for you did not cry when I was here._

_ Do not worry for me when I am gone, and do not pity me in death. _

_ When I lived in your cruel hateful world, not a single person worried_

_ for me and I do not want your pity. No one saw me in life, but now you shall_

_ in death. It is sad that when I will finally be seen, I will not be breathing_

_ and therefore will not experience it. It is only when a human dies that _

_ they someone finally decides to start listening._

_ Do not cry for me when I am gone, but know that I cry for you._

_ You are falling and I am flying._

Sherlock leaned back his chair, staring blankly at the computer screen. He understood the meaning of her book. This was her story. And she believed that pills would be her future. No one saw her being slapped in that park, no one but perhaps the great Sherlock Holmes. And if there was one thing Sherlock hated more than anything, it was an abusive man.

Lila

Lila stood in the bathroom of her home, gripping the sides of the sink until the skin over her knuckles turned white. She refused to look up into the mirror and see her reflection. She didn't want to see the new bruises that would paint her face in the patterns of his hand.

Slowly, she looked up, and burst into tears at the sight of her beaten face. Her right eye was black, but not as puffy as she had thought. His ring had cut her cheek on the last backhand and a thin line of blood was seeping from the wound. The bruising on her neck was green and yellow, a sign of healing, but it certainly didn't look like it.

She lowered herself to the ground, wrapping her arms around her frail legs and buried her head into her knees. Her sobs shook her shoulders, but not a single sound escaped her lips. Lila had taught herself to slightly cry years ago.

The sound of the door slamming as he left for work reached her ears and her body relaxed automatically. She felt herself go limp and she rested her head on the side of the tub, the cool metal feeling wonderful on her skin. Her eyes flickered up to the medicine cabinet above the toilet. She thought of the pills she had there. Pain killers, sleeping pills. What kind and how much would send her into a eternal sleep, she wondered.

Closing her eyes, Lila wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she had the courage to end her life. She knew she would- she had written it hadn't she? It was just a matter of when she would finally swallow those damned pills.

Standing on shaking legs, she walked out of the bathroom and made her way to the kitchen. She was so weak and tired that she had to stop halfway and lean against the wall. Her eyes saw the locks on the cabinets and refrigerator and felt more tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. He had locked up the food again. She hadn't eaten in two days and probably wouldn't be able to for another two after trying to get some that morning.

Lila turned away from the kitchen and went to the living room and slowly lowered herself onto the couch, again wrapping her arms around herself. Sometimes, Lila believed that was the only way to hold herself together- she literally had to hold herself together.

The sound of the doorbell startled her into a sitting position. No one ever came to their home. She had no friends- he wouldn't let her have any- and he hardly ever brought any of his friends home. Unless of course he was drunk. Lila shuddered at the memory of the last time he and his friends when they were drunk.

Again the doorbell rang, ruining Lila's hopes of it being a figment of her imagination.

"Coming," she called out quietly, hardly having any strength to speak.

She used the furniture to help her to her feet and to help her reach the door. Upon looking through the peephole, she saw a man she did not recognize and against her better judgment, she opened the door.

"Hello?" she said, gripping the door for support.

"Ms. Hymer?" the man asked. "I was at the park yesterday and you left behind your purse." He held out her bag and she tried to take it, but stepped too far from the door and fell forward into his arms.

Her world went black as she heard him calling out her name, asking her if she was all right.

When Lila awoke, she saw the familiar ceiling of her bedroom and felt a cool rag on her forehead. She tried to sit up, but was gently held down by a strong pair of hands.

"Whoa, hold on," a man said. "Take it easy, you passed out."

Lila tried to focus on his face, but he turned his head and called out for someone by the name of Sherlock.

"Wh-who are you?" she coughed out.

"My name is John Watson," he said. "My friend Sherlock went here to return your bag to you and you passed out. He called me because I'm a doctor."

"Oh no," she said. "What time is it? You have to leave. You have to leave now!"

"It is noon, Lila," a voice from the doorway said. "He won't be back for hours."

"H-how did-"

"John, there are locks on all of the cabinets. She has no access to food and I'm guessing she hasn't eaten in a while. Would you mind going to get her some food?"

"No! If Patrick finds out I've eaten anything-"

"He won't. Now, John."

John nodded and was replaced by a man with dark curls and piercing blue eyes. "My name is Sherlock Holmes," he said to her startled expression. "I am not a doctor, but I can look at that black eye of yours."

He took the rag from her forehead and dipped it into a bowl of water she hadn't noticed on her bedside table. Gently, he place the cloth onto her black eye and she winced at the icy temperature.

"Ice helps reduce the swelling," he explained. "You should keep ice on it for a while."

"Really, this isn't necessary," Lila tried to say. "Please, if Patrick finds out you are here-"

"Lila, I do not care what Patrick will do when he returns here. Right now, my main concern is why you are still here."

"What?" she asked, taken back.

"Why are you in this house? Why haven't you left?"

The personal question should have offended Lila, she knew it should have, but it didn't. Instead she started crying and grabbed Sherlock's hand, pressing it to her cheek. She didn't bother looking at the shocked expression on his face, she closed her eyes and held his hand to her face.

"You noticed," she whispered between her sobs. "No one has ever noticed."

"I'm special," he replied.

"Thank you for noticing," she said softly.

"You didn't answer my question, Lila," he said. "Why are you still in this house? Why haven't you left?"

"I can't leave. I know it is clichéd, but I can't."

"Why?" he pressed.

Lila released his hand from her face and turned her head away from him so she was looking at the opposite wall.

"I have nowhere to go. If you can't already tell from my accent- I'm American. I just moved to London last year. Being a teacher doesn't pay as much as I'd like and Patrick was my boyfriend... I figured moving in with him would be a smart move."

"You could find a different flat mate-"

"I tried!" she yelled, surprised she had the strength to do so. "But Patrick got me fired from work and cut me off from the outside world. I have no money, no friends. The only person I know is him. I can't leave, Mr. Holmes. I can't ever leave."


End file.
